


Strings

by Lunarrua



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: (not in that order), AU, Fluff and Smut, Grindr, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-22 09:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11376927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarrua/pseuds/Lunarrua
Summary: Tonight's just about moving on, no strings sex, simple as that.





	Strings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenandgolden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenandgolden/gifts).



> I don't want to add many tags because ... spoilers ... but greenandgolden - this is for you and I promise it _is_ one of your prompts, even if you won't be able to figure out which one until half-way through! 
> 
> Huge thanks to [Romy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustR) for agreeing to beta and for being so kind and helpful. Stellar job! (Any remaining errors completely my own fault!)

It’s 45 seconds after the best orgasm of his life and Zayn’s plunging, invisibly but with epic acceleration, into a pit of deep regret about this entire thing.

The guy (shit, he should really be able to remember his name, shouldn’t he?) slumps limply to deal with the condom as soon as they manage to slide Zayn’s legs from his tattooed shoulders and then he _whumps_ down, flat on his back, his arm pressing against Zayn’s, panting for breath at a rate that matches Zayn’s heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Zayn had hung up on Louis when he’d first proposed this supposedly brilliant idea - that he needed to bite the bullet and should just go and fuck a stranger, get the first one out of the way, get off with someone as different as possible from _her_ , maybe multiple someones. Despite Louis being every bit as much of a serial monogamist as Zayn ever was, he kept nattering on about it until eventually he’d worn Zayn down, and now it’s all ended up here … in a post-coital collapse on his mattress beside the first ever Grindr-hookup of his life, whose name he can’t remember, goosebumps rising as sweat cools on his skin, feeling like he’s just tipped over the peak on a rollercoaster and is now in a dizzying high speed free-fall.

It had been a very good orgasm. 

Like, truly excellent. And Zayn doesn’t reckon that’s only because it’s been so long since he’s been intimate with anything other than his own hand. He may have even blacked out for a moment, overwhelmed by the intensity of actually being fucked like that - hard, relentlessly, the guy holding his hair in a tight grasp, folding him almost in two, his thumb pressing past Zayn’s lips, biting bruises into the muscle of his shoulder when they came.

Zayn can still hear the involuntary sounds that were wrenched out of him as the guy pounded him into the mattress, and squirms inwardly. That was embarrassing. _Loud and embarrassing_. He didn’t know he could make noises like that - so desperate and unconstrained. He never made noises like that when he was with her. 

God though, it never felt like that when he was with _her_. Even those two times she agreed to wear the strap-on and they tied his hands to the headboard and she squeezed her long fingers around his throat until he was dizzy and gasping and teary-eyed with helpless pleasure. It didn’t match the feeling of him, this guy, this long-limbed stranger, overpowering him, sweeping him up and making him weak. His mouth on Zayn’s skin - on his lips, behind his ear, trailing along his neck. Those broad hands grappling his limbs and positioning him just so, hooking his legs apart and thrusting into him, steady and slow at first, until Zayn’s tight breathlessness gave way to that naked keening, that helpless confirmation that _fuck, yes, like that, yes_ , this was something, like really something, intense and true and rare and precious and then the guy shifted position and quickened his pace and Zayn had no words anymore.

But now …. now that it’s over … now that his bedroom is thick with the musky scent of it all and his exposed skin feels tacky and cold, now that the sensations in various parts of his body are beginning to settle into a series of intensifying aches … well, there’s only one question throbbing in Zayn’s mind:

How’s he going to get him to leave?

The guy suddenly huffs out a breathless little chuckle, stretching out languidly beside him, and Zayn’s spine prickles. 

“Wow,” the guy exhales then. He gently smacks the back of his hand into Zayn’s side, leaving it linger there, lightly sweeping a finger back and forth over his skin.

Zayn keeps his eyes fixed to the ceiling. They never turned on the light in the bedroom, and a thin gleam from the hallway lamp spills in through the open door, elongating shadows and hinting at secrets.

“I can call you an Uber, or something?” Zayn hears himself saying.

The guy’s touch against him slows to stillness.

“ _Seriously_?”

Zayn hesitates before glancing over. He quickly looks away again from the narrowed eyes glinting back at him.

“Wow,” the guy says again, and the word this time comes out as a short croak.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean …” Zayn’s eyes sweep the room frantically, like he’ll suddenly discover a poster pinned to the wall, displaying a helpful list of prompts for situations like this. Or, someone needs to invent an app. You type in your scenario - _definitely need my anonymous hook-up to leave before he even gets his breath back_ \- and it displays the exact words you need to say to ensure you achieve your goal without coming across like an utter arsehat.

His gaze comes to rest for a moment on his alarm clock, the digital display glaring a menacing reminder. He bites his bottom lip. 4.45 am already? Shit, fucking shittery shit. He’s never doing this again. He doesn’t care what Louis says.

“I just …It’s … I …” Zayn starts again and realises that any explanation he might offer that veers even slightly into the vicinity of the truth would take much too long to tell. So … He’s got nothing. 

He feels anger suddenly, flaring from the smouldering embers he works every day to keep doused down since _she’s_ been gone. It’s ruined him - her leaving. It’s not fair. He used to be reasonably competent at being civil. No wonder Louis’ trying to find something to keep him occupied. He’s probably had enough of him too.

“No, you know what?” the guy says, a moment after Zayn stutters into silence, “It’s OK”. His expression has changed back into a smile. It’s a tight, grimacing sort of smile, like when you have to complement someone’s cooking you don’t like, but it’s better than the glinting eyes. “It is absolutely fair enough. It’s completely fine.”

His voice is fucking criminal - deep and hoarse and stupidly slowly paced, like an LP on the wrong speed and Zayn could listen to it forever, but then he’s shifting, rolling over and swinging his feet onto the floor.

He pauses there for a moment, his hands on his knees, his head dropping forward. It’s all Zayn can do to stop himself from reaching to trail his fingers up along the curve of his spine, into the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck. 

But he refuses his fingers permission to move and the guy eventually takes a breath and pulls himself upright, pressing his hands into the small of his back. Zayn winces when he hears a definite crack. 

“Is that the bathroom?” he says, nodding towards the closed door in the corner, “is it OK if I, like, clean up a bit before I go?”

He’s waving his hand at his stomach and it’s only then that Zayn realises his cum is smeared there, over those laurel tattoos. It’s on him too, right up to his chest. They were pressed so closely together, he remembers, skin to skin, fingers digging in hard, teeth bared sharply into soft flesh. 

“Course,” Zayn says, gesturing circles at the door like he’s the Queen Mother or something, “go ahead.”

“Thanks.” He ambles over, flicking the light and the fan clicks on too, a dull reverberation that Zayn hopes masks the sound of the small groan he’s unable to keep from escaping when he rolls over onto his stomach and buries his face into the pillow.

Fuck.

What is he doing? Why is he doing this? 

It’s not that he’s a stranger to one night stands, like, before _her_ , but this is so different to meeting someone in a Club, someone you’ve danced around for a few hours and somehow tumbled home with. This … swiping over a photo of a tattooed torso, tapping a whiskey-drenched answer to “so what u into?”, chewing his thumbnail as he swept through the apartment - shutting doors and kicking laundry under his bed, hiding traces of all that’s most important to him, feeling the alcohol burn his throat while he waited, fingers tapping over the hole in the knee of his skinny jeans, until the apartment buzzer jolted him onto his feet.

This is … fucking Louis’ stupid idea! No strings. Why does he ever listen to him? Like, a _fuck_ is the magic bullet he’s been waiting for? Going for a _guy_ , like that’ll prove something? To show just how different he is now? That he’s _moved on_? That the ending of one relationship hasn’t detonated his entire life into nuclear fragments? 

He hears the taps turning on, water splashing, and then the inevitable squeal of the plumbing. She said he should get the landlord to do something about it, annoyed that it was just another thing he was letting slide, another mark on her score sheet of Zayn’ adulting failures. 

He bites his lip and he’s flooded with the taste of him, that guy. Those lips were something else. The way they spread wide into that sweet, open smile on the doorstep, setting something alight in Zayn straight away. And it was partly the whiskey but he didn’t even bother with small-talk, just shamelessly grabbed his wrist and pulled him straight to the bedroom.

Those lips… their soft pout as he trailed kisses down Zayn’s torso, their obscene stretch as they parted over Zayn’s dick, their heat as they pressed into the shell of his ear to ask if he still wanted it? What he messaged before? And there had been a teasing, spine-shivering bite into the hollow behind Zayn’s ear, before he asked again, if Zayn still wanted to be fucked? Then, after Zayn whispered his confirmation, those lips slid over his mouth, soft, sure, intense.

Annnndd … he’s singing now, shit, isn’t he? Zayn can just about make it out over the sound of the splashing water and the faulty pipes - a deep tenor, even and steady. 

But then, suddenly, a smash … a clatter of something breaking? A muffled “Oh! Shit! Oh no.”

Zayn jolts in his bed, rising onto his elbows but the motion draws his attention to the weird feelings in parts of his body that he hadn’t thought about as distinct entities before. He’s digging his fingertips into the muscle of his arse when he freezes again at the sound of a huge _thump_ , so loud it seems to set the walls vibrating. 

Then … silence.

Zayn rises again, this time making it to sit fully upright, his head turned to the bathroom door. 

“Um, hey?”

Zayn holds his breath for a second, then slowly lets his lungs deflate as the silence expands.

“Uh, hi?!” he calls out again, a little louder, “All OK there?” 

Zayn waits, breathless. Unease twists inside him. Everything is suddenly very quiet.

He pulls himself onto his feet and finds his boxers on the floor. He slides into them as he walks towards the bathroom door, mentally listing methods of torture for the next time he meets Louis.

He gives a tentative knock and when there’s no response he grips the door handle and carefully pulls it open.

It takes him a moment - the bathroom light glaring - and then he takes in the scene in front of him. The guy is motionless and in a heap on the floor, curled awkwardly under the sink. Strangely, there are pretty crimson flower petals scattered over the tiles and then Zayn blinks again to readjust to the brightness and - of course - they’re not flower petals. It’s blood. Splatters of blood.

So … that would be little splashes of blood and a naked, lifeless body on the floor of Zayn’s bathroom.

And also, he seems just now to have forgotten how to breathe.

What the fuck?!

In the next fraction of a moment, Zayn’s brain has run through about 20 scenarios in an attempt to figure out what is happening - including, but not limited to - a murderer hiding somewhere in the flat, a disastrous shaving cut, Louis’ pranking him, aliens (dunno, just, somehow), his lovebites were more devastating than he realised, vampires … holy shit! _Vampires_!!! 

Then the guy groans softly, and shifts a little onto his side.

“Oh thank fuck,” Zayn breathes, dropping to his knees, “you’re not dead!”

He’s about to crawl forward when he notices shards of broken glass on the floor, and the cut on the sole of the guy’s foot, the slow trickle of blood splashing into little droplets onto the pale tiles. 

Zayn exhales, remembering - he’d left an empty glass in here earlier, propped on the edge of the sink, during that twilight hour between him messaging this guy and waiting for his arrival, when there may have been some staring into the mirror in a pathetic soul-searching kind of way as he finished his whiskey.

He pulls a thick towel down from the rail and bundles it to sweep the fragments carefully aside, before creeping forward to place a hand on the guy’s shoulder.

“Uh, ‘m not dead,” he mutters from underneath his tangle of dark hair. He pulls himself up heavily onto one elbow, blinking dazedly.

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, his voice shaky, “are you OK? Shit, man. Hey, let me help you.”

He reaches for his elbow but doesn’t really feel like he’s being all that helpful, as the guy winces and gets himself sitting upright more or less unaided. He squints one eye and gingerly runs his fingers over his right eyebrow.

“Ow.” He whimpers.

Zayn’s heart’s beating fast and he slides along the floor, the guy frowningly focused on him, and reaches for a second towel, pressing it gently to the cut on the sole of his foot. When he takes it away a few moments later, it’s brightly stained.

“Oh… oh wow … oh no,” the guy says, looking at the towel, and he dramatically blanches, swooning slightly where he sits. He raises a hand again to his forehead, and Zayn sees the tremble in his fingers.

“Oh shit, don’t -” Zayn hurriedly wraps the towel around his foot and scoots back up, one hand taking a firm hold of the guy’s shoulder, the other tucking behind his head to guide him down. “Just lie back, OK?”

“OK, just for a second, please, if it’s OK,” he mumbles politely, sinking slowly back onto the floor under Zayn’s guidance, “… sorry ‘bout ... uh …”

Zayn watches a slight pinkening slowly return to his cheeks when he lays back down flat. 

“I’m not very good with …” he waves his hand around feebly at the splatters on the floor, “Kinda fainted there or something. Sorry.”

Zayn bites his lip and sees the red mark flaring over his right eyebrow. “D’ya bump your head?”

The guys fingers reach to his brow again, the frown returning.

“Think so.”

Ouch. The poor kid. Zayn feels the familiar dark pulse of guilt flood his veins. He knows never to leave breakables near edges of things, hasn’t for years. What’s wrong with him tonight? 

Something from that First Responder course _she_ made him do flashes to his mind, and he takes his hand from behind the guy’s head and waves it in front of his face.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

The guy’s eyebrows raise but he dutifully glances at Zayn’s fingers and announces, “Three,” then takes a breath to exclaim - “Oh, lemme see!” 

He reaches to entwine their fingers and pull Zayn’s hand so close he can feel his breath. “I like your rings.” 

“What year is it?” Zayn asks then, twisting his fingers free. Concussion can be a very serious thing, Zayn remembers from that course. He can’t quite remember what he’s supposed to do after the questions, though, so he’s possibly just going to have to keep going with them indefinitely.

The guy surveys him carefully. His dark hair is falling back from his brow and his face is relaxed, eyelids half-closed, expressionless really, apart from a slight twitch around his mouth. He slowly makes a peace sign over his forehead, then blinks slowly and makes an OK sign, peeking an eye through the 0, before pouting his lips and pressing his forefinger into them. Zayn slaps his hand away before he gets to the last digit. _Someone_ should be taking this seriously.

“Who is the Prime Minister?”

“Ugh, politics? Really? … Aren’t you supposed to be making me feel better?”

“Alright then,” Zayn relents, “something easier, what’s your name?”

The guy opens his eyes fully, and fucking hell, were they always that colour? That’s like, chartreuse or something, isn’t it? And Zayn has to swallow hard when a gleam of amusement washes over the guy’s face.

“Hmmm, now that’s a good one, what _is_ my name?”

Zayn feels his own eyebrow raise questioningly.

“Maybe you’ll have to help me out on that one?” 

Zayn opens his mouth and then shuts it again.

The guy bites the side of his bottom lip, smirking. Some people might find the kind of facial expression he’s currently exhibiting to be a bit on the irritating side. Zayn’s on the fence.

“I did tell you, you know,” he continues, raising the non-bruised eyebrow. “I distinctly remember arriving at the door and saying _Hi. I’m_ \- dot, dot, dot.”

The guy’s name definitely isn’t _dot dot dot_ , Zayn thinks. He’d definitely remember that. He feels his face flushing deeply.

“Well,” he huffs eventually, “don’t blame me, my brains sorta got fucked out of me, just now.”

The grin that spreads across the guy’s face then is both charmingly amused and disgustingly self-satisfied.

“Wasn’t bad, now was it?” he says brightly, “if I do say so myself.”

Zayn rolls his eyes and slides across the floor back to see what he can do about his injured foot. 

Compression and elevation, he remembers suddenly, and checks under the towel. Just a few tiny beads of scarlet emerge along the thin red line scored into his skin so Zayn reckons the wounds nearly closed already. He wraps the towel around again more securely and scoops a hand under his ankle, bringing it to rest on his shoulder.

The colour is spilling back into his cheeks, Zayn’s relieved to notice. There’s a little sparkle to his eyes too. Those chartreuse eyes. Or maybe that’s actually more of a jade, now that he looks again…

Zayn’s tears his gaze away but it’s a bit difficult to refrain from sweeping a glance along the lines of his body, his utterly naked body where it’s stretched out on the floor, all the way from his face up to where his ankle is balancing on Zayn’s shoulder. He’s got a lot of tattoos. A cute, not-quite-flat tummy. A generously proportioned dick that honestly looks as good as it felt, which isn’t always the case. His skin is creamy and smooth, and he’s little muscly in places, a little soft in others … and … he’s also been watching Zayn’s visual survey the entire time.

“Better view from there, then?”

Zayn flushes and reaches for the last towel from the rail by their heads. It’s actually only a washcloth, but when he flips it down over the guy’s crotch it just about does the job and provides a semblance of modesty. 

The guy laughs suddenly, and it booms around in the echoing bathroom. It’s a bit too loud, as far as Zayn is concerned, he’s not sure about this volume, but next thing, he’s extending his right hand.

“Harry. My name’s Harry.”

Zayn tries not to hesitate, just a hook-up he’ll never see again, he reminds himself, even if it has taken a weird turn, and he takes Harry’s hand to shake it. “’M Zayn,” he mutters, the heat on his face intensifying.

Harry doesn’t let go of his hand, so he looks up again.

“Nice to meet you, Zayn.” Harry’s smile is broad and open and is all summer days and singing along to your favourite songs and play dates with fucking puppies and something wallops violently inside Zayn’s ribcage. Which is interesting in itself because he’d been working on the assumption that his heart was a functionless heap of splinters these days.

“You don’t need to worry about remembering or anything,” Harry’s continuing, “I’m OK now, I think. I’ll go. No need to stress.”

Zayn frowns as Harry pulls his leg away from where it’s been resting on his shoulder and slowly rolls up onto his knees, and then pulls himself upright with his hands on the sink. He tests his towel-clad foot against the floor, and does a tiny little nod to himself.

“I’m not stressing,” Zayn mutters. “You don’t need to ... Sorry about ... You know … your name.”

“Don’t worry, small talk and social niceties, aren’t really what 2 am Grindr hook-ups are all about really, are they, in fairness? Gonna write myself a reminder memo on that.”

He taps his temple and winks at Zayn.

“And … of course - ” Harry flashes another of his brightly devastating smiles at Zayn, “no cuddling after! Silly me ... next thing I’ll be making you visit garden centres with me every weekend, or farmers markets, and we’ll stop monitoring our carb intake and we’ll get fat and have heart-attacks, and then we’ll die. It’s a slippery slope.”

He hops back into the bedroom, scrambling around to detangle his clothes from Zayn’s where they’d flung them earlier, with oh such reckless abandon, on the floor.

Zayn hovers in the doorway of the bathroom, swallowing down the cold lump of rock that has somehow appeared in his throat. 

“I .. that’s not …”

He watches Harry slide into his underwear and slip his t-shirt over his head. He picks up his jeans from the floor and hops over to the bed, sinking down, angling his towelled club-foot over a leg-hole with a perturbed expression.

It’s probably only guilt and nothing else that propels Zayn forward, pulling the jeans from Harry’s hands and reaching to take a firm grip of his bicep.

“C’mon. I’ve a first aid kit in the kitchen. We can put proper bandage on it so you can get your shoe on.”

He’s surprised when Harry’s up and leaning his full weight onto him within a second, an arm slung across his shoulders, breathing hotly onto his neck.

“Gonna carry me there, Zayn, or what?”

Zayn hesitates, but then braces his legs and slides his hands around Harry to sweep him up in arms.

“Shit!” Harry exclaims as his legs swing up from the floor. He tightens his grip around Zayn’s neck. “Didn’t actually think you’d manage that.”

Zayn hopes his face isn’t showing the strain, ‘cause he’s really fucking heavy, and Zayn’s knees are wobbling slightly with each step, but the kitchen isn’t too far away, and he sorta feels like he needs to prove something. He’s got good cuddling capacity, if called upon. In, like, different circumstances. If, his own head one day decides to stop kicking itself in the balls. Not that head-balls are an actual thing. If they were, Zayn’s would be permanently deformed by now.

 

In the kitchen, Zayn deposits Harry up on the counter with slightly less grace than he would have managed if his biceps hadn’t been silently screaming at him. He turns away quickly and when he comes back after rummaging in a cupboard for the first aid kit, he finds Harry sitting with his injured foot stuck straight out in the air, swinging his other leg, munching on a banana he’s helped himself to from the fruit bowl.

“Just getting the blood sugar back up,” he says, chomping another bite. “Maybe that’s why I … you know…” He rolls his eyes back in his head and sways back and forth dramatically.

“All right,” Zayn says, grabbing his shoulders and propping him upright again. It’s all beginning to feel a little more comfortable - taking care of someone. He knows how to do this. See? Not an asshole. He opens the First Aid box, “don’t look.”

Harry clamps his hand over his eyes, while Zayn carefully unwraps the towel and checks the cut. It’s stopped bleeding and looks ok - clean and neat. He swipes at it gently with the antiseptic wipe, grimacing to himself at Harry’s hiss of pain, and then quickly wraps the dressing securely with the white gauze. It wasn’t deep at all really. Maybe this Harry guy is taking the piss with this whole fainting lark… He glances up at his face and finds him frowning into his fist, eyes shut tight, knuckles white around the half-eaten banana.

Maybe not.

Zayn glances down at the bloodstained towel and kicks it out of sight.

“All clear,” he says, dropping Harry’s foot.

Harry exhales shakily. “Yikes... I’m sorry ...”

Zayn can’t stop himself this time from reaching forward and cupping Harry’s down-turned face in his hand. He strokes his thumb across his cheekbone until he looks back up. 

“You’re OK. Just a scratch. Take a breath. You’re fine now.”

He seems a little surprised that Zayn’s smiling at him, but then his expression clears and he widens his legs and presses his heels against the back of Zayn’s thighs, drawing him in to stand close.

He leans up and presses a soft kiss against Zayn’s lips, murmuring a low, “thanks.”

Zayn’s not sure what’s gotten into him, but he’s watching his own fingers tuck a strand of hair behind Harry’s ear. His dark curls are thick and feel slippery soft between his fingers and he kind of can’t help resting his hand at the nape of Harry’s neck so he can keep playing with them. 

Harry’s hands are lightly pressed against his ribs, his thighs spread around Zayn’s waist. It’s weird … being encircled by another body like this, someone bigger, strong enough to nudge him into position, it’s nice.

“You know,” Harry says, smiling gently up at him, almost shyly all of a sudden, “you almost had me thinking you were a complete arsehole.”

Zayn nods, grimacing slightly. Harry has a point. “Sorry. I just I … I haven’t done this before, this Grindr thing … I got a bit … panicky there…”

“Well, I just bled all over your bathroom and ruined your towels, so I guess we’re even.”

“You mean this was all an evil revenge plot?” Zayn has to chuckle at the cheeky grin on Harry’s face, the way his dimples deepen when he laughs. 

“Yup. Totally. I mean, the fainting stuff isn’t the real me, Zayn. Clearly. I’m very much a manly man, you know. Very rugged and macho.”

“My arse agrees,” Zayn says seriously, and Harry snorts and bumps his face into Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn moves away a little, so that Harry’s feet drop down, but he stays standing between the spread of Harry’s legs. He tidies away the first aid stuff and clips the box shut, Harry watching his every movement.

He reaches for Zayn’s left hand as soon as he stops moving, and pulls it over so he can study it properly, holding it between both of his.

“Hmmm…” he says at last. He trails a finger over each of Zayn’s rings, lingering the longest over the plain band on his fourth finger. “So … married, then? Is that what the rush to get me to leave was about?”

Zayn looks down at his hand held between both of Harry’s.

“Used to be,” he says, shaking his head, “not anymore. I should take this off really. Don’t know why I haven’t yet …”

He twists at the ring, bringing it as far as his knuckle, then pushes it back into place again.

“Bad breakup?” Harry asks, after watching him.

“Just …” Zayn’s throat still tightens when he has to talk about it, “sudden.” 

But he doesn’t have to talk about it, does he? No strings. No explanations.

“What about you then?” he pulls away completely from Harry. He goes to the sink and reaches for a couple of clean glasses from the draining board, fills them with water, handing one to Harry. “Keeping it free and fun on Grindr, huh?”

Harry shrugs, takes a sip from the glass, glancing down at where he’s carefully folded the banana skin on the counter top. “Eh… you know … new city, bit bored and … I still don’t know many people here, so … Actually, I keep telling myself I’m going to delete? Kinda getting sick of the ‘hit it and quit it’ thing really. I just end up feeling even lonelier than when I started out, you know? 

Zayn blinks at him. The way he just said it straight out - that he was lonely sometimes - like it’s something you’re allowed to admit to? Like the feeling doesn’t make him want to scoop out a hole in the earth to bury himself with the shame of it? It’s surprising that’s all. 

“But then, I dunno,” Harry continues, rolling his eyes, “I also just keep hoping there’s someone nice out there and we’ll meet in the end. It could happen right? Like, just maybe, all the forces of the universe are conspiring to bring us together for some immense, devastating, life-changing romance and it’s all going to happen thanks to a shitty little hook-up app.”

He glances at Zayn and blushes, grinning bashfully when he sees whatever it is that’s happening on Zayn’s face.

“Yeah … I know …” he shakes his head, laughing, “Well all the sex is fun too, though, so …”

“Just…” Zayn smiles, moving back closer, tentatively running his palm over the tiger tattoo on Harry’s thigh. He’s so cute, is the thing. Zayn hopes nothing ever diminishes this sweet honesty vibe he’s got going on, “I’m not an expert, but I’m not 100% sure Grindr’s your best bet for finding true love. Or even somebody to be nice to you. I mean I wasn’t…”

Zayn takes a hesitant breath and starts again, “I’m sorry if I wasn’t all that nice. I … I assumed … I didn’t think you might want … sorry, it was just that …”

“C’mere,” Harry says, shifting on the counter-top until Zayn’s stepped back between his legs, unable to resist, sort of falling into him as Harry leans forward to mumble against his lips, “You turned out nice enough, I think.”

Zayn runs his hands along Harry’s legs until he’s resting his palms over his hips. He’s kissing him back. It’s impossible not to. He’s just this mix of softness and taut muscle, broad, boney hands, gentle sighs and the tease of his tongue.

He’s slightly banana flavoured now too, but that’s tolerable.

Zayn’s getting hard again - all these touches, this closeness to another body – he’s almost shaking with it. It’s like forgetting to slow down enough to breathe when you start gulping water after a desperate thirst. He digs his fingers into Harry’s t-shirt and slides him closer, so he’s right on the counter edge, his weight falling heavily into Zayn. Harry breaks their kiss to take a breath, and he arches his back and grinds forward into Zayn’s bare stomach, so Zayn can feel his dick has thickened too. It’s making him want to scoop Harry up in his arms again, press him into a wall and just … fucking …

He stops abruptly and wrenches himself free, panting slightly. He thought he heard …

And there definitely it is - a rattle of keys in the hall door. 

Harry slips down from the counter when Zayn jumps back. He rights himself, reaching a hand onto Zayn’s shoulder for balance. His eyes have widened, frozen on Zayn’s face.

Zayn catches sight of the time blinking on the oven timer - 6.08 am. Shit. Of course. He was lucky to have made it this long without getting caught. Stupid. 

“You need to go,” he tells Harry. Why didn’t he make him leave when he had the chance?

“But … you said … you’re really not married anymore, right?” Harry whispers, gaping at him.

The door opens and they bluster in - his mum with Tasha in her arms, curled into her shoulder, both of them wearing P.J.s under the bundle of their coats and scarves.

She seems to be about to tip-toe through the living room, when she spots Zayn and Harry standing close together behind the counter, and freezes.

“Oh,” she breathes, and Tasha’s head pops up from her shoulder.

“Daddy!” she whines, and it twists Zayn’s insides. He’s across the floor and scooping her into his arms straight away. She buries her head under his chin and he feels that small hitch in her breath, her tell that signifies the tail-end of an extended cry, and his heart pounds unbearably. He wasn’t there. She wasn’t ready for this. He’s never letting her go again.

“Sorry love,” his Mum says quietly beside him, “we almost made it through the whole night, but she woke early and just got so upset I thought we could sneak in here without waking you…”

“It’s all right,” he says, and he repeats it for Tasha, murmuring into the top of her head, “It’s all right sweetheart, everything’s OK. Daddy’s here.”

She lifts her head from his shoulder, rubbing irritatedly at her eyes. He smiles what he hopes is reassurance at her, and drops another quick kiss onto the top of her head. When he looks down at her again she’s looking over his shoulder, a puzzled frown crumpling her forehead.

“Are you practising sleep-overs too?” she asks, pointing at Harry.

Harry seems to have petrified - his mouth hanging slightly open and one hand half-way through dragging at his hair. He jolts on his feet when he finds himself under the observation of three sets of Malik eyes, and tugs at the hem of his t-shirt, trying to pull it down lower to cover his underwear. Zayn’s would be impressed by Tasha’s boner-killer superpowers, if that wasn’t a weird thing to think about his daughter.

“Yeah,” Zayn says quickly. “Harry needed to practise sleep-overs too.”

Harry gapes back at him, his eyes opened even wider.

“Oh!” Tasha’s whole body has suddenly jerked in excitement and she’s wriggling out of Zayn’s arms. Her voice is barely more than an excited squeal when she speaks again - “WERE YOU PLAYING HOSPITAL????!”

And she’s rushed over to Harry, one hand on his bare knee pointing the other at the bandage around his foot. She’s so thrilled she’s started jumping up and down on the spot. He takes a nervous step away, casting another shocked glance in Zayn’s direction.

“Oh! But Daddy! I need to get my doctor case! He needs ‘jections!” She starts to run towards the far corner of the living room where her play-box has all her toys packed tidily away.

“Sweetie, no,” he tries to keep his voice steady and calm, “it’s too late for playing hospital. Or early, I mean…”

“YOU were playing!” she whirls around to stomp her foot.

“No we weren’t.” Zayn tells her. 

“Then what were you doing?” She trots a few paces back towards him.

He feels his mother turn her face to him, but no way, that won’t be happening. Maternal eye contact is clearly unnecessary at this particular point in his existence. He keeps his gaze fixed away from her. The fact he’s wearing nothing but his boxers is really beginning to make him feel more and more … well … naked.

“OK,” he tries again, “so we were playing but we’ve stopped now because Harry has to go home.”

But Tasha has never been one for easy fobbing off, and she’s narrowed her eyes and is staring across the room at Harry’s foot, at the stained towel kicked under the counter.

“Oh!” she gasps, slapping a small hand over her mouth. The catch returns to her breathing, and her eyes start to glisten. Zayn rushes over and drops down to her. Shit. Not this. Not now. 

She reaches for him, her hand glancing against his neck, but her gleaming eyes have fixed onto the bandage, even as she whispers, “Is it not playing? Is it real?”

She’s breathing faster now, burgeoning panic raising the pitch of her voice, “Is it a really bad hurt, Dad? Is he not going to get better?”

“He’s fine, he’s fine, pet,” Zayn rubs her back, plants a kiss on her cheek, “don’t get upset. Take a nice deep breath now, remember how we do that? It doesn’t hurt, does it Harry?”

He looks up at Harry, hoping he can see the favour he’s pleading with his eyes.

Harry’s just looked overwhelmed and bug-eyed ever since they came in but something seems to click in him then, and he blinks once, before nodding and smiling down at Tasha.

“Doesn’t hurt, not a bit!” He rolls his foot around in the air, as a demonstration. “Your Dad made it all better.”

Beneath his palm, Zayn can feel Tasha’s breathing slow down as her panic lessens.

“But!” Harry continues, and Zayn shoots him a warning look. Judging by his broad grin, he seems gleefully determined to ignore it, “I do think I might need an injection, to be sure of a full recovery. You never know. Is anyone around here a doctor by any chance?”

Tasha’s eyes widen. “Me!” she cries up at him, sniffling and rubbing at her nose. “I’m a very good doctor!”

“You are?!” Harry beams at her, with that smile that’s all puppy-dates and encores at festival and seat-dancing in your car in traffic jams and everything Zayn had power-washed from his life after _she_ left. “Great! Will you do it then?” 

“Yes! I will do the ‘jection! Wait a sec, kay?”

Zayn feels a sudden urge to rip his own skin off as he watches Tasha tear across to the other side of the room to go get her doctor’s play set. She looks … just plain ol’ happy and excited. Just like the way she always used to, before everything changed for both of them.

“And get dressed Daddy. It’s morningtime now!” she shouts back. “We have visitors and you look silly!”

Zayn’s mother snorts and tries to cover up her laughter under a hand. “I think that’s a good idea, pet.”

There a basket of tumble-dried laundry in the corner of the kitchen so Zayn heads for it. There’s definitely not a standard etiquette for this kind of situation, but something in him tells him that exiting the room to get dressed and leaving Harry alone with his mother and daughter would not be a good plan. 

He pulls on an old pair of sweats and a wrinkled t-shirt, and when he turns back he finds Harry has wriggled into his jeans they’d earlier tossed over the back of the sofa. 

His mother has moved into the kitchenette and is filling the kettle in an apparent attempt to remove herself from the situation, without actually removing herself from the situation. Zayn can see her shoulders still shaking as she giggles silently to herself, and he just knows, with a sinking certainty, that she and his sisters are never going to let him hear the end of this.

“Did she sleep at all?” he edges over to ask, having finally settled on a tack of pretending nothing is at all awkward about this scenario. 

In the main living room, he can hear Tasha chattering to herself as she rummages through her play box and sees Harry sinking heavily onto the sofa to wait for his “treatment”. Or else he’s feeling faint again. Tasha would probably be happy with either outcome.

Zayn needs to figure out how to get him out the door. How is it he is _still_ trying to think up a strategy for getting him to leave? Who is he going to have to talk to to get this fucking app developed?

His Mum catches him looking at Harry and shoots a too-bright grin at him, but quickly rearranges her expression when she sees the way Zayn stares stonily back at her, still waiting for her to answer.

“She actually did great,” she eventually replies, “She was happy enough going to sleep. Just, when woke up at 5, she forgot where she was and got into a little bit of a spiral.”

OK. So maybe his Mum is on board with the whole “let’s pretend nothing odd is happening” approach, after all. Zayn releases the breath he’s been tightly holding. She’s been so kind to him, over the last few years, but for this, he thinks, he’ll never sufficiently be able to express the depths of his gratitude.

“But,” she continues, her swallowed-back giggles apparent in her voice again, “I think she might have got more sleep than you, by the looks of things…”

“Mum …” Zayn murmurs, changing his mind on the gratitude, shooting a look over at Harry who is now getting a detailed lecture from Tasha on the purpose of every piece of her toy doctor’s kit. To give him credit, he is acting utterly absorbed, nodding and pointing at things, asking questions.

“He is quite the cutie!” Tricia says then, smirking into the cupboard as she reaches for mugs. “Some of those tattoos seem a little unfortunate, but he’s got very nice legs, I must say …”

“God! Mother!” 

“And of course, you will have noted that I haven’t made a fuss about the fact you never actually introduced us, when I’m quite sure I raised you to have better manners than that. But I’m sure it was just the surprise of seeing us, in your state of undress, so I’ll let that go for now.”

Zayn wraps an arm around his stomach, pressing hard against the squirming sensation he feels there. “Mum, it isn’t … it isn’t anything. It’s just a … you know … not anything …”

“Oh,” she pours the steaming water into the teapot, “just a shag? That’s a pity. He seems nice. He seems quite sweet with Tasha, isn’t he? Maybe you should get his number. See how it goes?”

“Mother. Please don’t say that word.”

She’s giggling again. Since when did his mother giggle? She was always more of a chuckler, up to this point, which was really more appropriate for a woman of her age. And what’s so funny anyway? This situation is just stress and nothing else, anyone can see that.

“What word?” she asks, biting her lips in an unsuccessful attempt to hide her grin, “Shag? Please Zayn, you think at this stage of my life I don’t know what young men are like? I mean, honestly, your father was such a pest at times when he was your age. I remember once on the bus back from a trip to the cinema …”

Zayn just shakes his head. No. Nope. Stress times 100. So the rest of this story is banned. He has a feeling it’s the kind of thing he’ll spend the rest of his life regretting having heard.

“It’s really not anything,” he interrupts her, “With Harry. It wasn’t like he was supposed to be staying over or anything. He just stood on something and ... we just lost track of time. I would never meant for Tasha to meet him. She’s had enough to deal with.”

“No, of course,” his mother puts the kettle down and opens her mouth to speak a couple of times before she actually says the words, “but you know you deserve some happiness too, Zayn? I’m not saying now’s the time, or he’s the one to try with, but when you are ready to date again, you know we’ll all help? You have enough babysitters available, don’t you? I’m sure we can even avoid barging in on your sleepovers, if you warn us in advance.”

Zayn flushes again at the way her eyes sparked when she said “sleepovers” but Tricia ignores his discomfort, as ever, and keeps talking.

“And Tasha will be fine. She’s got you. You’re her constant. You’re all she needs, aren’t you? And she needs her Dad to be happy. That’s all any of us want, pet. It’s what you deserve after everything.”

“Now,” she says, picking up the tray as Zayn’s eyes start to prickle with sudden heat. “I’m ready for a proper introduction to Mr Sexy Legs out there. Let’s go.”

 

When they walk over to the sofa, Tasha is waving her plastic thermometer at Harry, proclaiming over his protests, “No Harry, this goes in your bum so I can see if you’re too hot.”

“Oh, sweetheart, no” Tricia rushes to say, “the vet just did that with Missy because she’s a cat! People get it in the mouth.”

Tasha looks at her, a horrified expression on her face. “That is so gross!”

Harry takes his tea with milk and no sugar, politely declines the biscuits, Zayn notes, and he’s easy and polite with Tricia and very tolerant of the variety of ‘jections, temperature taking, blood pressure readings and additional bandages Tasha decides he is in need of. The therapist said this obsession was just her way of working through what happened, so Zayn’s quietly grateful for the way Harry’s just going along with everything, politely thanking Tasha and assuring her how much better he’s feeling now.

After a while, Tricia, displaying the true understanding that mothers always have of their children, manages to pull Tasha away with a suggestion that she should be checking on the health of the teddies she has propped on her bed.

After they leave, Harry turns to Zayn, smiling.

“She’s very cute,” he says, “how old is she?”

“She’s just turned four,” Zayn replies. He chews at his bottom lip before adding, “She’s the most important thing in the world to me.”

“Of course,” Harry says, straight away. He pauses and then asks, “So, it’s just you and her?”

Zayn nods. “Well, and my family … they’re all brilliant. Mum helps me a lot.”

“And, um …”

Zayn watches Harry formulate the inevitable question.

“… her mother … she’s not involved?”

Zayn takes a breath and fuck it, he’s just going to say it. Why wouldn’t he?

“She died. We weren’t getting on and we’d split up and then three months later she got sick and died. It happened so fast. Tasha’s … It’s been hard … She gets very anxious sometimes … worries it’ll happen again. She hasn’t figured it all out yet, and … it’s just … she’s …”

He can’t say it, can’t give voice to his deepest fears - that this tiny, sweet-hearted little person has been irrevocably messed up and nothing he can do will ever fix it, that her bad dreams and day-time worries, her barely contained panic that Zayn might leave her too, none of it will ever be soothed away, no matter what the therapist says about the great progress she’s making.

Harry reaches for his hand, giving it a squeeze. “It’s so obvious how safe she feels when you’re there. You’re like her super-hero, all ferocious and protective. She knows she’s got you. Try not to worry about her. It’ll get better. I can tell.”

For the second time in less than half-an-hour, Zayn has to blink away the hot flood rushing to his eyes. He takes a couple of breaths, blinks up at the ceiling. Fuck. Everyone thinks he’s got this, and it just … it doesn’t feel like … he’s …

“I’m so fucking scared, sometimes” he blurts then. He can’t believe he’s said it aloud, but he has. So ... “It’s so terrifying - being all she has. I’m ... like, I’m a bit crap really. And she’s so … She’s just so perfect. This little perfect person. So small and sweet and … it’s not fair what happened to her. It’s not fair.”

He’s been so angry. At _her_. How could she have done this to her own baby daughter - just leaving her like that, just going off and fucking dying? He waits for the familiar flaring, the burn. But for once, for the first time actually, the anger doesn’t rise and instead he just feels a slow, seeping sorrow. It’s been lapping at him for 18 months, but now, for the first time, he allows depths of it to wash over him. 

_Carina_ , he thinks. _Carina. I loved you once. We made each other so mad but I loved you so much. We both loved you. Why did you have to go?_

Harry’s watching him carefully.

“Zayn,” he whispers, “That’s really hard. I’m so sorry.”

He pulls Zayn’s hand to his lips and turns it over, presses his soft lips into his palm, down to his wrist, nuzzling in so Zayn’s cupping his cheekbone.

Zayn sniffs, huffing out a juddering breath. He looks away again, moving his hand to scratch into Harry’s scalp. It feels so nice, the softness of Harry’s hair tangling through his fingers. He could do this forever … if Harry wouldn’t object to being treated like a pet dog. Judging by the way his eyelids have drooped, he might be open to persuasion.

“It’s OK,” Zayn tells him, “I’m OK. Sorry.”

He grips Harry’s hair in a loose fist and gently rocks his head over and back so he looks up and can see Zayn smiling at him. “Bet you’ll definitely be deleting Grindr now, huh? Tonight has been _a lot_ , right?”

Harry shrugs, “Well, as you know, my whole goal was to let the universe bring me some kinda huge, crazy, true love … and …”

He smiles softly, “… you and her. I got to see that. That’s been pretty good. It’s been a good enough night, hasn’t it?”

 

Harry is gingerly slipping his bandaged foot into his shoe, when his Mum and Tasha come back in.

“CocoPops for breakfast, ‘cos I did the sleepover!” Tasha announces, scrambling onto the counter-top via a stool to reach into the tallest cupboard.

“Tasha!” Zayn gasps, “what is the rule about climbing?”

His mum grabs his shoulder as he’s about to rush over, “Let me, love. Why don’t you walk Harry out?”

It seems like an excellent opportunity to avoid dealing with her still present smirk and Tasha’s apparent intention to give him a stroke, so Zayn leads Harry out of the apartment to the elevator.

“So…” Harry hunches his shoulders, watching the lights over the doors announcing the progress of the lift’s arrival.

“So,” Zayn nods, in agreement.

He hears Harry take a breath and waits for what he has to say …

Which is exactly nothing, apparently.

Zayn shuffles his feet, and looks up again at the lights over the door. Floor 3 seems to be causing a hold-up. That’s legitimate, though. He’s got no issues with Floor 3. Who knows what Floor 3’s got going on, really? They should take all the time they need. Who is he to judge?

He glances over at Harry and catches him looking too, and they both grin awkwardly at each other and look away quickly.

“Maybe…” Zayn starts, but runs out of steam. 

“So listen Zayn, I’d really like to see you again sometime,” Harry gushes suddenly. “If … if that’s something you’d like too.”

Zayn inhales deeply, turning slowly towards Harry. He sees the blush in his cheeks, the hopeful elevation of his eyebrows. The bruise over the right one has darkened over the last few hours, a small but definite blot on his lovely features. Zayn bites his bottom lip.

“Harry -” he starts, he bites his lip again, “I’m not sure how much fun I would be to date.”

“That’s OK,” Harry says quickly, “It doesn’t have to be fun exactly, not all the time. As long as it’s real, right?”

Zayn blinks at the floor. 

“And,” Harry continues, “there you are with those fucking eyelashes, so I’m down, you know? Seriously. You bring the eyelashes and I’ll bring the fun – injury-free, fainting-free fun, promise.”

Zayn chuckles, chances a glance up at Harry.

He’s smiling at him. Of course he is.

“Well,” he begins, “me and the eyelashes don’t get out much. I mean, we’re working on Tasha having one sleepover a month at Mum’s, at the moment?”

Harry shrugs, his eyes bright and steady on Zayn’s face. 

“Unless,” Zayn glances down again to watch his own toes squirming against the grey linoleum, as he considers whether he wants to give voice to the thought that’s just occurred to him, “well, there’s lunchtimes … but …”

“Lunch dates are pretty good.” Harry says quickly, “I’ve always been a big fan of lunch, personally speaking. Tight timeframe, but keeps the focus, you know? Quality not quantity.”

“Hmm,” Zayn nods. God. Could he do this? Start something like this? “You don’t even know me. We don’t even know each other…” he mutters.

“No.” Harry gives the elevator lights again another check. 

Zayn follows his glance - God bless Floor 3 and their elevator-hogging ways. 

Harry takes a few steps away to lean into the opposite wall. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Might end up that we don’t like each other at all, I suppose, if we spend more time together.”

“Exactly!” Zayn exclaims. This is exactly what he’s been thinking. “And it wouldn’t be fair to Tasha, having people coming in and out of her life.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, nodding slowly, “I think, maybe, she should only meet someone again if you were sure, if you were sure that you wanted that person to stick around.”

He shrugs, “And, I suppose that might take a while to be sure about. A lot of lunch dates or something. But after a while, maybe, and if everyone felt pretty sure, Tasha might like to have a new friend too.”

The lift bell bings suddenly, and the doors sweep open. 

“Actually, I probably could do with finding a kid to hang around with,” Harry says as he walks into the lift, “All my favourite things make me look like a weirdo without one. I swear! I went to the zoo just after I moved here and this security guard followed me everywhere. And when I went to that last Pixar movie, the girl selling the tickets came and sat beside me once the lights went off.”

“Don’t worry about it, they just fancied you,” Zayn tells him.

Harry barks out that loud laugh he has. And that’s another thing ... that’s a very loud laugh to have to deal with on an ongoing basis. That would take a lot of getting used to. 

Zayn finds himself biting his thumbnail, while Harry turns around in the lift and leans against the far wall. His laughter slows and he meets Zayn’s eyes, a warm smile spreading over his face.

That smile… it’s catching snowflakes on your tongue, it’s pressing your nose into the crease of a new book so you can inhale the smell, it’s sliding between freshly laundered sheets … it’s the first time someone reaches for your hand, slipping their fingers between yours, pressing your palms close together...

“OK!” Zayn exclaims, suddenly, like someone’s hit a panic button inside him and that was the alarm call.

“OK,” he tries again, a little more calmly, “maybe … maybe lunch, sometime … maybe that would be a good place to start …”

Harry beams at him from the cavern of the lift space. 

“Yeah, OK.” he says. “Let’s start with that then.”

“OK.” Zayn moves forward, keeping a hand pressed into the door edges so they won’t close in, and Harry steps towards him, reaching to take Zayn’s face between his hands and guiding him to meet his lips.

“Message me quick for my number,” Harry breaths between kisses, “’cos I’m deleting Grindr after this. Definitely.”

“OK,” Zayn tells him. He feels Harry step away and lets his hand slip down to his side.

Harry flashes a final smile as the elevator doors close and then he’s gone. 

Zayn watches the lights blink brightly on the display, until they’ve indicated that Harry’s made it to the ground.

“OK,” Zayn says again quietly to the empty hallway, feeling something burst into bloom inside his chest.

“OK then,” he says. “Let’s start ...”


End file.
